


druid is for pocket

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Crossover, Druids, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6496891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do the gods know anyway?  A druid and a wizard can find their own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	druid is for pocket

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirabai0821](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/gifts).



> This was a random bit of fun that I hammered out with vague Dragon Age character inserts in a vague Dungeons and Dragons campaign setting. Cullen “bad at wizardry” Rutherford was borrowed from @mirabai0821. There is silliness and smut ahead!
> 
> Note: Line edit performed on 08/03/17.

 

They were on the road to some town with–-Auril willing, one with an inn and enough class to provide a wash basin-–a name like Greenfell or Brickbend or Stonefuck when Tamara’s hips started to ache from all the walking. Druids were tied to nature and at home in it, but trap a druid in a fleet-footed beast form like a wolf for years on end, without surcease, and the lithe muscular body hidden within forgot the way of walking on two legs.

It had only been a few weeks since this party of misfits had found her in the glade and freed her, and her body was still readjusting. 

But just because the healer in the last town–-another druid, with that serene erudite attitude of some of the elders she had most loathed in her long-distant adolescence–-had cautioned her to refrain from using animal forms for extended periods of time didn’t mean she had to _heed_ that advice. He was no elder of _hers_ , and Auril loved her child–-even if sometimes she went silent for decades at a time. But that was only to be expected of nature deities, after all. So many important things to worry about when nature was your domain-–seasons, growing, harvests, fecundity and the fervor of mating–-

Tamara wrinkled her dark nose, ignoring the burning heat of an invisible blush in her cheeks. The wolf she had spent years in would have been in her cycle right now. Her body hadn’t quite forgotten that. 

Her eyes-–flickering variegated brown like the water at the bottom of a stream-–flitted assessingly over her companions. She wrote off the Dragonborn fighter almost immediately-–he was a fine specimen, with a fetching embossed silver eyepatch and plenty of scars to entice exploratory fingers and tongue, but the size difference made her nervous-–and besides, he was a darling, solid and steady in mien and joyous in battle. She didn’t want to disrupt that equanimity. 

The warlock was equally off the menu. She’d seen the way his pewter eyes strayed to the Dragonborn–-every inch of him. Her heated caresses would find no purchase there.

The wizard, though…humans had such coarse hair, and human men were worse with their endless bristly cheeks and jaws and chins, but this one had soft tousled curls the color of fallen linden leaves and threshed wheat and eyes like a lynx. He was a curious man, truthfully. A mabari trotted at his heels, but was no natural-born creature. She knew looking at it that it was like her own magic, summoned from the energy of the earth. But it was faithful unto its form, and obeyed its master without pause. And _he_ was dexterous and had the quick reflexes of a rogue-–a confusing trait for a spellcaster. 

He made no sense, and so her mind fixed on him. It had nothing to do with the handsome shape of his face and lips, the scar bisecting the top lip speaking of a dangerous life of close-combat encounters, or the way his very unscholarly muscles rippled when he wielded his staff, or the way sweat collected in the hollow of his throat, perfectly offset by the neck of his leathers. Leathers! On a spellcaster! She shook her head, tossing the white vines of her hair back over her shoulder. 

He was a strange one, no mistake. 

But her hips. Still ached. And the pads of her bare feet were beginning to burn as well. The wizard had a pack, loosely knotted. She ran her eyes over it, thinking, then thought and will aligned and she folded in on herself in a haze. Her companions didn’t remark at her disappearance–-she had cultivated a habit of disappearing to hunt and track on her own.

A snowy-pelted mink skittered across the dirt of the path, and snaked its way up the trailing edge of the wizard’s cloak and squirmed into the neck of his pack. A soft little mink chitter of relief escaped her as she settled into an impromptu nest smelling of oakmoss and elderflower-–a spare shirt made a wonderful place to rest.

* * *

She woke again when the easy rolling gait of her packmule finally changed pace. Her little mink nose twitched, trying to parse the scents outside the pack, but the shirt that had been so comforting dulled her sense of the outer world. She squirmed her way up to the flap of the pack, sticking just her nose outside, twitching avidly. 

Woodsmoke. Day-old stew. Stale brown bread. The perennial alcoholic scent and sound of a drunken bard. Ah. An inn. 

She shifted, preparing to extricate herself from the pack and return to her form right there in the road outside the inn, but the wizard was speaking-–his dark honey-sweet voice requesting a hot bath sent up to his room.

Indignation suffused Tamara when the maid revealed there was only the one tub–- _sorry, messires_. It had been so long since she’d had warm water to bathe in, and her hair needed tending and her skin ached for heat and soft oils. This wasn’t fair!

She hesitated a moment, trying to decide what to do, the mink bits of her clamoring for a longer nap. Well.

That was a thought, wasn’t it?

Two birds with one stone, so to speak.

She curled back up in her shirt-nest, feeling a mingling of anticipation and smugness. This clever wizard wouldn’t know what hit him.

* * *

The mabari was going to make this difficult. It started whining and dancing around as soon as the wizard-–the mink thought of him only in terms of what he was, but Tamara’s mind asserted itself with his name: Staunton–-set the pack down on the floor by the fireplace. 

“What’s wrong, boy?”

She heard the creak of leather as Staunton crouched down, and could imagine him holding his loosely curled knuckles out for the dog-seeming to sniff at. What a soft-hearted fool. The seeming knew its Maker, that was all. There wasn’t affection in it. She had learned that the hard way once. 

Tamara held still as the wizard sighed regretfully. “I suppose you’re tired, boy. I don’t blame you. You’ve been a good boy today. I know it’s been a long summons.” There was a soft, answering whine, and a rueful chuckle that nearly sounded like-–well. No, it was silly to hear the echo of grief behind a laugh. The hunger in her loins was addling her brains.

A clatter from the door as it pushed open and the maid and a stableboy hauled in the tub. When they had left, after pouring bucket after bucket of steaming water into the tub, the wizard creaked again to stand, muttering a soft arcane command.

Tamara peeked her mink face from the edge of the pack, watching as the mabari settled before the fire and–-faded away.

Huh. What a strange man. A strange, beautiful man.

She watched him with beady little mink eyes as he stripped off his leathers, setting each piece of his armor carefully over a rough-hewn chair in the corner. He was very careful with his things. 

She forgot her minkness when he stripped the last bit of clothing away, leaving his dimpled and muscular ass facing her-–her little mink paws covered her little mink mouth to stop a little mink whine.

This was ridiculous. She wanted her form. It felt good to want that, to want to be herself.

She wriggled free of the pack, leaving the scent of oakmoss and elderflower behind, and watched the wizard fold himself down into the tub with a stuttering sigh of pleasure. It sent a shiver all through her sinuous little body, and she shook that off as she faded and hazed around the edges and unfolded up into her proper form. After so long in the mink form, she was nude in the transition. Her sleek teak skin was burnished by the fire in the small hearth, and her snowy white vines cascaded over her shoulders, partially obscuring the topmost branches of the ice-pale laurel tree tattooed and etched up the length of her muscular back. 

She forgot herself for a moment, lost in the flickering warmth of the fire on her bare skin, and let out a bone-deep sigh and moan of pleasure.

There was a startled splash and yelped “Merciful Tyr!” from the tub. Tamara’s eyes slitted open and she watched as the wizard slipped trying to push himself up in the tub. She cocked her head.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

He was breathing hard and flushed from the tips of his rounded human ears on down below the waterline. His brows were drawn down over his pretty golden lynx eyes. Tamara grinned toothily. He scowled, but there was a blush mantling his pale cheeks. 

“Druid. How did you get in here?”

She slunk closer, the sinuous coil of mink still clinging to her muscle memory. She was quite bare, and he was quite aware. “It’s Tamara. And you brought me.”

His scowl deepened into confusion. “What?”

“In your pack.” Her eyes closed for a moment as she recalled the blissful nap, curled up in his shirt. “It made a very good place for a nap.”

His eyes shot to the toppled pile of his pack, the loosened flap. “What?”

She rolled her eyes. “You summon a mabari to follow you like a smitten puppy but you don’t understand what I am. Wizards.” She dissolved back into the mink form, and when she tried to come back, her mind found a form it liked better and became a lynx, staring into his gold eyes with matching ferocity. 

She gave a hoarse cat-laugh as he started back in the tub, and faded again, standing upright on strong elf feet and muscular elf legs and her bare beautiful dark elf hips. Her arms crossed over her chest, not to conceal, but to express her amusement with him.

“Hullo.”

It was amazing that a man’s body had enough blood in it to color the skin with embarrassment and shame while also filling the heated organ between his legs. She watched this phenomenon with interest. 

“Tyr, preserve me from temptation, deliver me from the weakness of the flesh…”

Tamara tilted her head again. “You don’t even pray to a spellcaster’s god. You are a strange man.”

She watched him swallow hard and summon a calm expression from some deep reserve. It was endearing. His golden lynx eyes fixed on her face, determinedly not straying, and he frowned. “What do you want?”

“You stole my bath. I thought you should consider sharing. It will take them so long to heat more water for me.” She looked a little sad at the thought. She was always cold since leaving the glade and she missed warmth. 

His eyes widened. “What?!”

“The bath.” Her flickering dark watered-stone and stream eyes fixed on him as if he were a puzzle. “It looks very warm.”

“Sweet Tyr, please-–”

“He’s busy, you know.”

A startled glance. “What?”

“Your justice god. He’s with his lover. He’s not answering strange wizard petitioners right now.”

“How in blazes-–”

Tamara smirked. “Auril thinks they’ll be at it for quite some time.”

Something strange flickered deep in his eyes. “Your goddess…speaks to you?”

Tamara canted a hip. “When she feels like it. She thinks you’re a little odd. But pretty. I have to agree.”

He dragged a dripping hand down his face, muttering to himself. “I can’t do this.”

Tamara took a few steps closer to the tub, lured by the steam still curling up from the water. “Is it very warm?”

He huffed softly, still hidden behind his hand. “What?”

“The water.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, a look of longing on her dark apple cheeks and clear brow. The tips of her long ears almost quivered with wanting. 

His fingers parted so that he could shoot a curious glance towards her face. He dragged his eyes down, noting the pebbling along the tender flesh of her arms, and he felt guilty. She had been trapped in the form of a wolf when they found her, for Tyr knew how long. The concept of “creature comforts” must take a new meaning after such an ordeal. 

She was very beautiful.

He heaved a sigh. “If…if you’ll turn around for a moment, I’ll leave. I’m sorry. It would be unspeakably cruel of me to deprive you of a bath after all you’ve been through.”

A slow smile curved her lips. “You don’t have to leave.”

His blood had just begun to calm itself, but that shot it right back into a battle as it tried to decide which took primacy–-his cock or the shameful blush in his cheeks. “Tyr-–” His god’s name was a frustrated whine from his throat.

Gentle fingertips touched the center of his forehead, stroking sidelong to brush back his curls. “You don’t follow any rules as a spellcaster. Why are you so attached to this shame?”

He opened his eyes, and she was very near, bent over him, her flickering gaze fixed on his curiously. There wasn’t artifice or cruelty or judgment in her expression–-only the curiosity of a woman who thought nothing of her nudity and his, and spoke to her goddess as casually as breathing. He’d never known a druid before. He had no idea if she was typical.

 _That’s a lie_ , his mind whispered. _There’s nothing typical about her. You know it._  

He sighed, his shielding hands falling back to the sides of the tub, draped along the edge. “This is not…proper.”

That elicited a rich chuckle from her. “Proper! It’s natural.”

“Perhaps to druids,” he muttered.

She laughed again, dragging a fingertip down his nose. He didn’t flinch from her touch. “Druids and men and wizards and warlocks–-demons and halflings. Even bards, but I don’t think there’s anything natural about the wine-sopped mess downstairs.”

A slight smile kicked up the scar at the corner of his mouth. He felt it, but couldn’t stop it. That sad old thing _had_ been seeped in a rather pungent sour-wine pathos. His body tensed as the water in the tub displaced and she climbed in, her muscular limbs sliding along his. 

He couldn’t help the fervent prayer in his heart. _Tyr, guide me._

The echoing silence in his mind sounded a bit like a laughing _You’re on your own, mate_. What good were gods anyway?

Staunton pried one eye cautiously open when the least he was confronted with was the slide of legs against his. The druid-–Tamara, he reminded himself–-was folded into the opposite side of the large tub, her cheeks glistening with heat and moisture, the long, silvery vines of her hair draping over her shoulders. She seemed completely disinterested in him and his frenzied heartbeat and inner turmoil, until those eyes glided open. They weren’t brown. It was more complicated than that–-color and flicker and depth, like a dark stream struck through with sunlight. 

His heart wasn’t sure it had the fortitude for this moment, as it stretched on into contented silence. 

“You’re pale like spring flowers,” she observed softly. A toe stroked against his hip, and he nearly swallowed his tongue.  

He tucked his chin down, eyeing her uncertainly. “Is that a bad thing?”

She laughed, throaty and rich, carelessly twisting her limbs around him as she slid up to her knees before him. Water cascaded down her skin, dripping from the curled ends of her hair. Her breasts were full and tipped with dark nipples, and he didn’t know where to direct his eyes. _Mystra?_  he tried plaintively.

Her laugh rang out again, and she leaned forward, pressing her soft body against his drawn-up knees. “Stop talking to gods and talk to me.”

He frowned, trying not to feel petulant, though part of him pointed out that he was being ridiculous and that there were plenty of men out there who would have dove into this situation with aplomb. “Maybe I should convert to this Auril of yours. She seems singularly chatty.”

Clever hands stroked his knees. “I told you. Only when she feels like it. You’re the most amusement she’s had in ages.”

He drew in a ragged breath, steeled his resolve to the sticking place, and put one of his hands over hers. She was smiling at him. It was a beautiful smile.

Another breath, trying to still his hammering heart. This should be in a codex somewhere: how to be seduced by a druid. Future generations of wizards needed to know.

“What…what will you, my lady?”

A tiny shiver worked through her shoulders and he couldn’t help another hitching breath as her nipples tightened visibly.

“Oh. Say that again, please.” Her hands slipped strokingly down his knees, the long bone of his thigh, ruffling wiry curls under the water. 

He took yet another breath–-coping with seduction, a series of deep-breathing techniques (perhaps this, at last, was the knowledge he could contribute to the wizard profession). “My lady?”

Her hands stopped on his inner thighs, his knees parted so that she began to slink closer. Her eyes sparked with pleasure, and her smile only grew. “That. I like that very much. Maybe you really are a wizard after all.”

He opened his mouth to protest that he was a proper wizard, vested and robed even if he didn’t wear them because they made walking feel very silly, but her hands had begun exploring again, and one warm palm wrapped around his very enthusiastic cock. His mind went blank. 

“T–-” The names of gods fell away. There was only one name that mattered. “Tamara!”

Soft lips brushed against his cheek, seeking the lobe of his ear with a gentle suction. “You called for me, wizard?”

A harsh groan coiled in his chest and then trickled free in a low growl. This was ridiculous. He brought his hands in, cradling them against her ribs, and stroked up to cup and heft her breasts, thumbs and forefingers twisting gently at her nipples. She gave a soft cry, tucking her face against his neck, delivering a nip, and then another, her teeth marking his skin. 

“My lady, are you sure you are not still a wolf in truth?” His voice had dropped, teasing now.

Her hand tightened on his cock and stroked upward roughly and he could not still the jerk of his hips and the bitten curse that spilled from his lips. “Apologies, my lady.”

She pulled back, eyes flashing. “I see I have put a weapon into your hands with that. Shall we joust, sir? I feel confident that I will unseat you.” She gave another significant squeeze to his throbbing length, her thumb stroking the fluttering vein and around the swollen crown. 

“And I will make you howl, druid.” His eyes opened, darkened lynx gold burning into tumbled streams. He slid his hands down to her rounded hips, grabbing them firmly, and pushed his legs down, pulling her forward into his lap. 

She laughed, throwing back her head, tossing the silver vines of her hair with a triumphant expression. “Yes!” Exultantly, she lowered herself onto him, her hands streaking, dark against his pale skin, the contrast making him shiver with need, and she gripped his shoulders. 

If the gods would not answer him, she would be his goddess. He seized her laughing lips as she settled over him, the stretch and slick slide of her flesh around his enough to send a deep shudder through him from the crown of his head to the root of his cock. Her body was sleek and muscled, flexing and writhing beneath his stroking hands, and he muttered fervent nonsense as his mouth worked its way to the teak flesh of her shoulder, before biting and licking and tasting her with hunger.

Her hands worked up the nape of his neck, fingers tangling into his hair. She bowed her head with need, hips rising and falling over him, her need twining through her like new grown roots and spring tendrils. The etchings in the flesh of her back warmed under his unknowing touch, and she cried out, her body seizing around his, aching and taut with power.

He gasped at the sudden clutch of her body, feeling warmth flow through her flesh, and particular heat in the raised lines under his fingertips. His head fell back, his hips snapping up against her with tense need, chasing the fluttering tremors of her pleasure to his own release. When it came, he pulled her down hard against him, pressing into her depths, his forehead on her shoulder. Heat curled through his skin, across his face–-part of him wanted to cling to shame, but the rest of him was anchored to her by the new growth in his heart. 

He breathed her name against the warm flesh of her shoulder, raised his head with great effort, his body still thrumming. And went still with shock. The room was wreathed and hung with thick flowering vines and the graceful arching branches of laurel extending like arching wings. Tamara’s face was painted with pain and pleasure, her flesh warm against every part of him. Her eyes were shut tight, a slight wrinkle between her brows. 

He clutched at her upper arms tightly, fear at the unknown–-fear for her–-seizing him. “Tamara!”

She breathed softly, steadily, her heartbeat slowing, her flesh cooling to normal temperatures against him. Delicate leaves fell to the plank floor of the room, branches furling up like a fern might do, drawing back into the etchings along her back. Her eyes flickered with a fecund green when she opened them to meet his. 

A slight, subtle, inscrutable smile curved her lips. “Don’t fear creation.”

A shudder chased its way through him, and he dragged a thumb across her lower lip, stroked it back along her cheek to do what he had wanted from the start and gently traced the length of a soft silver vine of her hair. He asked the first thing that came to his tongue. “Does it hurt?”

Her head cocked, as if curious at the question. She shifted in his lap, making him hiss a soft breath, and feel a twinge of returning desire–-so quickly, was it her magic? She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, strangely tender for this sudden encounter. 

“Of course. Life hurts. It doesn’t mean it isn’t also pleasing.” 

When she began to move against him again, he was ready.


End file.
